


nightmare.

by Shnurgarst



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:00:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23171347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shnurgarst/pseuds/Shnurgarst
Summary: as it says on the tin.
Relationships: Junkrat | Jamison Fawkes/Roadhog | Mako Rutledge
Comments: 2
Kudos: 42





	nightmare.

They got him.  
Jamison–squirmy and twitchy as anyone he’s ever seen–has been caught.  
A rat in a trap.  
(It might be funny if he couldn’t clearly see–even from a fair distance away–the fear in ~~his friend’s~~ that man’s eyes.)

While he may not be the friendliest man around, if there’s one (positive) thing that can be said about Roadhog, it’s that he never puts anything less than his all into a task once he’s committed to it.

He’s not sure what pisses him off more: That someone has the goddamn nerve to try and catch Rat in the first place or that they might hurt him, and a sort of fury that he hasn’t felt in years makes his blood feel as though it’s absolutely _boiling_.

Rumbling threats and promises of slaughter if his ~~companion~~ ~~friend~~ boss isn’t released die in his throat as he’s told–in some grating, fucking annoying accent that he has come to associate pleasantly with only _one_ person in recent years–that if he moves, the smaller man dies.

He doesn’t remove his hand from the hook fastened at his hip, and in response, they tell him that he’s got ten seconds–and counting down–to respond, to drop his weapons and do as they say before there’s more than one execution carried out.

Though the gesture is hidden behind his mask, he grits his teeth, blind rage bubbling up and quickly overflowing as he acts without thinking, throwing the jagged hook in his grip with a brutish strength only matched by a select few (and surpassed by even fewer), knowing his aim would stay true and he’d see the one with Rat’s flesh arm in their grip crumple to the ground.

Except he should’ve known that it wouldn’t happen as he imagined, and everything seems to move in slow motion as he watches the tool that has protected that ~~scrawny bastard~~ _friend_ of his slam right into his head.

There’s a lot of blood, and he blinks slowly a few times, struggling to process the sight of Jamison’s now caved-in forehead, brain tissue and skull fragments alike being flung through the air as the hook travels its course.  


He has no idea why, but everyone else is suddenly gone, fading away like smoke carried on by a breeze, and he is left completely and utterly alone with the corpse of Jamison Fawkes.

Though it’s normally something he does with ease, he can’t retrieve the hook.  
No matter how hard he tries to tell himself to just pull it back, he _can’t_.

His strength is failing him, first physically in the way of him collapsing to his knees, then mentally as his hands find purchase in his own hair, fingers bunching up the strands and pulling until it’s a wonder that his own head isn’t bleeding.

“Fuck. Fuck, no. No, no, no–Junkrat.  _Jamison_ .  _**JAMISON** _ . Do you hear me? Answer me, damn you, or–”

He’s vaguely aware of how shallow his own breathing is, and it’s like a vice of failure and guilt has his lungs in its grasp, squeezing relentlessly and making it harder for him to breathe, his chest heaving with no real reward for the effort, and–

* * *

He wakes up with a start, the faint grumbling of the other man ignored in favour of stumbling toward the door of their place in the Overwatch headquarters, desperate to find cold, unrestrained air.

He needs the medicine in the canisters, and he knows the smartest, best thing would be to go back, but he isn’t sure he could look Rat in the face right now, shame and fear alike mocking him all the while for his cowardice, for his failure to do something right for once in his life.

_It’s your goddamn fault that his life was ruined in the first place.  
Your intentions don’t matter. You fucked everything up.  
Your actions destroyed his homeland.  
You can’t protect him forever. You’re a miserable failure._

Not realizing he has been mumbling to himself the whole time, he feels almost as if his soul has attempted to escape from him when he feels a familiar metal hand tap one of his arms, its matching, flesh one pressing a can into his much larger, unoccupied one.  


Dimly aware of some near-whispered comment about how he looks like he has seen a ghost, Roadhog realizes that he must look absolutely terrified (and horribly _stupid_ ) if even Junkrat is willingly passing up the opportunity to say something ornery.

In return, he mumbles a low, barely-audible ‘ _Sorry, boss_ ’, hoping that it’d satisfy the other’s curiosity for now as to what was wrong, because he knows he won’t handle going back over the sights his mind had conjured up without even more ugly results.

After all, _he’s_ the one who’s supposed to be a bodyguard.  
What kind of a bodyguard has to let their boss check up on them instead?  
( _A fucking failure, that’s who_.)

**Author's Note:**

> written as part of an attempt at seeing how i might handle writing someone like the big pig himself.
> 
> not the best end result, perhaps, but it could've been a lot worse.


End file.
